Little Particles of Light
by Rachel2008
Summary: Cristina wants to see the light.


Title: Little Particles of Light

Author: Rachel2008

Disclaimers: They aren't mine, no copyright infringement is intended, blah blah blah.

Spoilers: None, really. Just a silly little idea, and I mean *silly*. You've been warned.

Summary: Cristina wants to see the light.

Rating: T, I think.

Feedback: Like it, don't like it, just let me know.

Archive: No.

Special thanks: Mercury Gray was again a very generous beta-reader and an excellent teacher. She's also a great writer, so go read her stories.

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_Earlier_

"You should shave," she said, out of the blue. It was raining outside and they both had the day off. They were on her bed, her back against the backboard, his head on her lap, each one reading a different medical journal.

"Excuse me?" he asked, turning his head towards her.

She sighed. "Shave," she repeated, a little annoyed but in that kind, endearing way of being annoyed with someone very close to your heart. "I think you should shave your beard."

He gave her a look. "And I should do it because...?" He trailed off, leaving the rest of the question for her to fill in.

She paused for a moment. "Don't get me wrong, you look good, and red hair really suits you, but this thing," she pointed generally to the scruff, "is going to ruin my face."

"Your face?" he repeated, not really following her.

"My delicate complexion is too sensible for that beard of yours," she pointed, her fingers playing with his hair. "It irritates my skin," she rephrased, wondering why men couldn't understand the most basic laws of skincare.

He smiled, clearly amused by her display of girlish-ness. "You're tough. You'll survive."

"I'm serious!" she defended, punching his shoulder lightly.

"Nah," he shook his head, the medical journal resting on his chest. "Three years in the desert shaving almost daily were enough. I am done with the clean shaven thing. You're going to have to deal with the beard."

She gave him an incredulous look. "Really? All that rush and you are complaining about shaving?" she teased, her tone light, for she didn't want their small talk to become anything too dense or painful.

"The Army doesn't allow military personal to have beards and I guarantee you that razors, sand, sun, and sweat are one hell of a combination," he explained to her, caressing her leg. "See, nothing prepares you for… for over there, but not everything is about bombs and eighteen years-old losing limbs." A beat. He didn't want their talk to go deep, either. Not there and not then. She knew it wasn't the time for it, either. "The sand can drive a man crazy, I swear. It finds a way inside your clothes, your socks, it settles on the edges of your ballistic vest, cuts the back of your neck, scratches your face," he recalled, making a disgusted smirk that provoked a small laugh from her. "It sneaks into laptops, phones, machinery, equipments, guns, toothpaste, everything, everywhere, all the time. It's a nightmare. As far as I'm concerned, sand could disappear from the face of Earth entirely and I would be just fine with it."

His little rant was so adorable it made her want to pinch his cheeks until it hurt. But she didn't do cute, and she knew he didn't do cute either. "Don't be such a baby. You're talking about particles of quartz," she reminded him.

"Evil particles of quartz," he protested, half offended, half joking.

"What, no vacations on the beach then?" she challenged him, wondering how it would feel to be away for a couple of weeks with him. He sneered and she changed her antics. "I look that good in a tiny bikini," she suggested.

"I prefer you naked," he quipped. "And my delicate complexion is too sensible for the sun," he mocked, mimicking her tone perfectly. This earned him a laugh, another playful punch and a kiss.

_Later_

It seemed like there were a billion tiny spots shining in front of her, each one a different color and shape, just like when you're a small child and you squeeze your eyes shut very tight, the circles pulsing in a lysergic kaleidoscope. They were so bright and pretty and they were dancing in perfect synchronism with the most amazing physical sensations and they ... they were gone!? Woah, what? Who?

She looked down and a pair of bright blue eyes was looking straight at her, a smirk on his flushed happy face.

"What?" she asked skeptically.

"Do you still think I should shave?" he asked casually, resting his face on the inside of her right thigh, which wouldn't be bad at all under normal circumstances, but was too far from where it had been just a few seconds before.

Oh, bastard.

Only he would have the nerve to stop *that* to tease her. No, to irritate her, to piss her off, to annoy her, to disconcert her, which was something he loved doing at the most unappropriate times. Any other men in her life had known better, but this guy wasn't scared of her, though he should be, if he valued his silly little life.

"You are not funny," she declared. No, he was not, not at all. Why was she with him, anyway? Oh, yes, the mouth. And the hands. And the rest of him. And the part he actually made her happy. And the little spots. Oh, yes, the little spots were a big part of why she was with him.

"I think I am," he replied, seeming fully pleased with himself, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on her waist.

She tried to play it cool. She wasn't going to give him the pleasure of voicing her dissatisfaction. "Knock yourself out."

The corners of his mouth started creeping up in a smile, sparks flying in his eyes. "Then I think we could make a break, so I can shave and stop hurting your very delicate complexion," he countered very calmly, stressing each syllable of 'delicate'.

"I really do not care," she stated, trying to sound as nonchalant as she wanted to pretend to be, lying right through her clenched teeth.

And then he was grinning, a dirty, wicked, mischievous grin which hold oh so many promises for the night. "Right, I believe you," he said, in an I-do-not believe-you-at-all-and-I'm-going-to-be-very-obvious-about-it tone. He didn't move an inch back to his previous position and his eyes ravaged her body on purpose.

Jerk. She wanted to weep that smug over his face so much. Beat the crap out of him. Kick him out of her bed. But she was a woman of priorities, important and urgent priorities. She wanted those pretty dots back. They were lovely and colored and she needed them. That was natural, wasn't it, to have a need for dots? Of course it was. She could make him pay back later, right? Or would it look like he could always get his way just because?

But then, fuck, who cared?

"Oh, shut up," she gave up, conceding defeat, and he laughed heartily, kissing a spot on her right knee that conjured the first bunch of these small colored dots she loved.

Fucking bastard.

Fucking talented bastard and his damn beard.

_Finis_.


End file.
